


Unwarranted Affections

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Hand Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-19
Updated: 2011-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nathaniel Howe doesn't want to be attracted to Ser Cauthrien, but he can't seem to get her out of his head - or avoid her when he wants to be alone. PWP. AU, Awakening-era.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unwarranted Affections

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iapetus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iapetus/gifts).



> AU, where Ser Cauthrien is recruited by Sereda Aeducan into the Wardens after the end of Origins and survives the Joining; takes place early during Awakening. A gift for Iapetus and relies on some knowledge of a prior scene - Nathaniel and Cauthrien engaged in a grappling match at Aeducan's behest, Cauthrien determined to prove him incompetent. A few things went wrong during the match, however, and things were felt that neither party wanted to be felt...

This was bad. He was reaching a new low, but ever since he'd remembered Cauthrien at the door to his room while working himself a month before, he couldn't get off in his own bed without thoughts of her, intruding and distracting and entirely, _entirely_ unwanted. He had needed to seek out other secluded spots in the Keep, and luckily, from his own childhood, he knew several.

But then he would be moving to one and she would somehow _be there_ and he would retreat again, feeling once more unsafe and exposed. She did that to him, flaying him open and laying him bare with a few choice words and that look of hers. He hated it. She was Sereda Aeducan's trained, vicious watchdog, and while he was finally beginning to understand the Warden, forgive her even- Cauthrien he could only hate.

Now he was hiding out like some awkward teenage boy in one of the sheds in the practice yard, amidst wooden swords and light shields, padded jackets and pillowed arm-guards, with his leathers hiked up and his smalls around his ankles, breath hissing through his teeth as his hand played, still lightly, along his length.

Even this spot, though, was tainted; just outside the shed doors, she had found him practicing his marksmanship. They had sparred, him shirtless, her in her breast band but nothing else above the waist. He had torn it from her to distract her, to try and gain the upper hand, and he could still remember the feel of her breasts against him, her nipple under his finger, the way she had retaliated by seizing his groin, gripping him, harsh and dangerous, and his own hand squeezed at the thought. He cursed. He couldn't escape from her, couldn't shove her from his thoughts.

What would it have been like, if Aeducan hadn't been there? Would Cauthrien have switched to rubbing him through his trousers? Would he have, instead of going for his dagger, pulled her leggings down and plunged into her, all writhing and no doubt thrashing heat? Would she have unbalanced him again, pinned him down and _taken_ him with all the anger and hardness that was in her eyes every waking moment of the day?

He groaned, head falling back against a storage crate, hips jerking up involuntarily. He couldn't do this, this fantasizing about a woman he hated, who hated him in return. It was already bad enough that he had seen, _felt_ her breasts- that she had felt him growing hard at the thought. It was bad enough that when she threatened him, when she backed him into a corner or advanced on him full of cold rage after a botched engagement with the darkspawn, he felt himself quicken. She didn't want him, and _he_ didn't want _her_ \- at least, he didn't want to know what she looked like in the morning or sounded like when she came apart, didn't want to hold her or stroke her hair or speak of pasts and futures.

He just wanted to know what it would be like to conquer her- or be conquered by her. And he was not a man for conquests.

This was bad.

And yet he still pumped himself harder, finally giving in to what he seemed to want with every breath. He imagined it was her, kneeling before him, between his legs. Would she ever do that? He doubted it. He couldn't imagine the proud Ser Cauthrien _giving_ service, and while he wanted to push her down to the floor and pound into her, he couldn't think of thrusting into her mouth with any sort of pleasure. No, he wanted her to want him in return. That was the only way he wanted her. He was not his father, and he would prove it to her with every swipe of his tongue, flick of his fingers, snap of his hips-

He groaned, turning his head to the side and bucking up into his hand again. He tried to imagine her armored and covered in darkspawn blood, threatening death to somebody unless they cooperated and gave her the information she needed- but the image didn't stay. Instead, he was imagining taking her from behind, hands over her breasts squeezing tight and using the hold to pull her shoulders back, arch her as he pushed into her. She'd cry out, or maybe just bite her lip and hiss- yes, she would be quiet, wouldn't she, proud and reserved and-

" _Maker_ -" he gasped, squeezing his eyes shut.

Her neck, he knew, was almost too-slender for her broad, tall body, pale and curved and he wished he could press his lips to it, catch her pulse in his teeth, follow the path of her muscle down to her shoulders.

He had to finish this quickly. He wanted to just sink into thoughts of her, all long limbs and strong hands, but it was the worst idea he'd had yet. He pumped himself with renewed fervor, thumb sliding over the head of his cock and smearing precum. He bit back another groan, rolling his hips forward in rhythm. Not too much more. Not too much more and he could force all these thoughts away again, pretend they hadn't happened, and rejoin his comrades in the assembly hall. Aeducan had finally had the painting of his mother taken down, and he had still to thank her, but oh, _Maker_ , Cauthrien would be with her as she always was and-

The door to the shed opened and he froze, lips parted, eyes still shut.

 _Please, let it only be one of the guardsmen or the groundskeepers. Maker preserve me._

"Nathaniel Howe."

The Maker clearly hated him. His blood ran cold and hot both at the sound of Cauthrien's voice ( _of course it was Cauthrien's voice, who else could it be, who else would find him in the throes of passion?_ ), his cock twitching in his hand.

He heard the door close and held his breath. Had she left? Maker, he prayed that she had left. But then there were footsteps, approaching quickly, and he had to open his eyes.

She was staring straight down at him, an odd look on her face.

It was dim in the shed, but he could make out the line of her waist, her legs, the flash in her eyes. She was pale and the barest light in the room caught on her skin, what little there was exposed of it. She was dressed as she always was, and he knew every detail of the outfit - the scuffs on her boots, the way she tied the laces of her leggings, where one of the toggles on her arming jacket had been replaced, how its padded length hid a strong muscled stomach and waist.

He didn't dare open his mouth; he would have only moaned.

Here he was, a master of stealth, of escaping undetected, of _discretion_ , staring up at her with nervous, lust-glazed eyes, licking shakily at his lips, with his smalls around his ankles, in full armor but with it all rucked up. And she was just- watching him. He couldn't read her expression. Anger, yes. Confusion, yes. But there was something else-

She dropped to one knee beside him, bringing her face close to his and reaching down to touch his wrist. He responded to the touch with an uncontrollable flutter of his eyelids- and an entirely controlled loosening of his fingers around his cock.

She replaced them with hers.

He heard her chuckle, a soft, low little sound, and her fingers around him were just as firm as he'd imagined. He couldn't hold back his groan then, and it earned him an even firmer squeeze. She slicked her palm with his own precum and nothing else, and each stroke had a rough, almost painful edge to it that made his breath hitch and his cheeks burn.

"Cauthrien-" he got out, a question as much as it was a moan of need.

"Shut up," was all she said, and his expression twitched to a frustrated snarl, hands reaching out for her. She caught one with her free hand and pushed it back to the crate, pinning it there. Her pace sped up and his other hand faltered, falling to her knee, gripping it tightly. He dug his fingers into her flesh the way he would have into a bedspread, trying to keep himself grounded, his body trembling as he tried to keep from bucking upwards.

She leaned close, close enough that he could feel the heat of her body, could feel her exhale as she spoke into his ear. She was kneeling now with one leg between his for more stability as she worked him, chest close to his, leaning in and holding herself up with her hand on his wrist. When she spoke, it was directly against his ear.

"The commander needs you ready within the next hour," Cauthrien whispered, and somehow the utterly controlled tone of her voice made him harder and more eager still. He wanted to gain control, roll her over and press into her, but she held him fast. "Half an hour if possible. There's been darkspawn activity on the road to the Blackmarsh."

She rolled her wrist, sliding her palm over the head of his cock again and then rolling his foreskin over the ridge of his glans. Her motions were rough and forceful and a bit clumsy, but he wanted it that way, wanted it the way he'd always thought she'd be.

"So you're going to finish this," she continued, voice still level, "and clean yourself up, and report to duty. Do you understand me, Howe?"

When he couldn't give her a response besides another groan, her hand stilled and squeezed.

" _Howe_ ," she said, sharply.

"Maker, yes-" he got out then, eyes opening once more. Her face was so close to his. He could have kissed her- he _wanted_ to, and she was so _close_ , and-

Her hand left his wrist to catch his chin.

"Good," she said, and her lips quirked into a little smile. He thought she would kiss him _then_ , but she only pulled away again, using her hold on his chin, his throat, to keep him still.

At first he stayed that way, letting her pull him closer to orgasm, head lolling back again and eyes half-closing, but then his fingers twitched and he remembered them, and he reached for her. Both her hands were busy and he felt her hips beneath his hands, her waist, and he slid his fingers up along her sides and managed a throaty, "Let me-"

"No," she responded, but it wasn't a _no_ of disgust or distaste. It was more amused than anything else, and when had she ever been _amused_ by something he did?

He had to be dreaming. He had to be in the Fade or drunk out of his mind, but he didn't remember running into any demons or accepting any of what Oghren offered him to drink. He remembered every moment up to deciding to use the shed, every moment from there up until the one he was living now, heels digging into the dirt floor and hips jerking in time with every rough stroke of her hand.

" _Cauthrien_ -"

He tried to pull her against him but she remained still, and the strength of her beneath his hands made his throat go dry. He wanted this. He wanted _her_ , and Maker help him, now she knew. She had to know. She had to understand that he was responding to her this way because he'd thought of it before. She couldn't miss that, or the way he said her name, and the flood of fear and regret and hope and want that passed through him was the last little bit he needed. One more roll of her fingers over his cock, and he cried out her name and came, hard, seed spurting onto the ground between them, on the knee of her leggings.

When he ceased to spasm and twitch in her hand, she let him go and stood up, wiping herself clean. His hands trailed helplessly over her hips before she pulled away, and then, gasping for breath, he tried to put himself back together.

His cheeks continued to burn, and he couldn't look at her.

It wasn't until he, too, was standing on shaking legs that he met her eyes. She was still standing there, watching him, and there was still a faint smile on her lips.

He couldn't find the courage to return it.

"Ten minutes in the assembly hall," Cauthrien said, and with nothing more between them, she left.

He stared after her for five of the ten minutes, before finally finding his mind, his legs. He staggered after her, then took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders.

She hadn't killed him.

It was a start.


End file.
